


Starved

by RandomSlasher (Randomslasher)



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Gen, Multi, Touch-Starved, negative self-talk, self-deprecation, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomslasher/pseuds/RandomSlasher
Summary: Virgil is touch-starved, but there are ways to cope. Until there aren't anymore.





	1. Coping Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt on Tumblr. This will get very angsty before it gets fluffy but I promise it will get fluffy eventually.

He’d gotten pretty good at coping. 

Virgil had learned long ago that there were ways to compensate for not getting any actual physical contact. They might not have been as good as the real thing (not that he’d really know), but there were...substitutions. Approximations. 

Hot showers were one. He took lots of them, because the warmth of the water surrounding him was...comforting. 

Blankets were another. When just piling on extras stopped helping, he switched to heated blankets, and then--after reading an article online--he’d tried a weighted one. Sometimes it got a little warmer than he liked, but he compensated by lowering the temperature of his room, because the warm weight felt...really nice.

Then there was the hoodie. 

The others might think it was ridiculous, the way he wore the hoodie all the time, even when it was hot outside. But the hoodie was important, because it fulfilled two purposes: one, it provided constant stimulation to his touch-starved skin. And two...

Two, it kept the others from touching him by accident. 

He knew it was stupid, to want to avoid that at all costs, when half the reason he wore the hoodie was to provide himself with a substitute for the sensation of skin-to-skin contact. But in reality, an accidental touch was a thousand times worse than no touch at all, because no touch at all was...steady. It was a consistent ache, but one he could get used to, learn to deal with, and ultimately learn to ignore. 

But when someone touched him--even briefly--all his coping strategies fell apart, because it was a stark reminder of just how much better actual physical contact really was. That, combined with the shameful knowledge that he’d taken it from them without consent...it was just easier to avoid it altogether.

In order to make certain he never took something from them they didn’t actually want to give, Virgil adhered to a strict set of self-imposed rules. When they all watched movies (on the rare occasions they invited him to join them), he stayed on his chair, even though there was plenty of room on the couch. In the kitchen at mealtime, he ate standing against the counter or--even better--retreated to his bedroom with his food and left them alone. During brainstorming sessions, he kept himself far removed from the others and Thomas, settling on the stairs while they all gathered around the coffee table. And, because no one ever protested or invited him to come closer, he knew they appreciated his efforts. 

But it was still hard, sometimes. The weak, pathetic part of him that wanted more than was his right to take--that part of him cried sometimes, watching the others exchanging casual touches, or pats on the back, or warm hugs. And it was getting harder to ignore. He found himself dreaming about it a lot, as he tried to imagine what it might be like--to have someone’s arms around him, holding him, protecting him. Was it warm? Did it feel like you were safe from the world? Could you feel each other’s heartbeats? The rise and fall of one another’s breathing?

He tried to ignore the thoughts, when they intruded on his consciousness. It didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve their touch--they’d’ve offered, if he did, right?--so there was no use dreaming about what ifs and maybes. It was his own secret shame to contend with, and he wasn’t going to let it become a problem. He’d kept things from them for twenty eight years, right? He was used to it. He could cope. 

And he could. Quite well, he thought.

Until, one day, he couldn’t. 

*


	2. Escalations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old methods aren't working anymore.

Virgil’s hands shook slightly, as he adjusted the sash on the figure in front of him, then stepped back and eyed it critically. 

The figure didn’t look back at him. It couldn’t. It didn’t have a head. 

But that wasn’t really important. It was built for function, not aesthetic. Besides which, all things considered, a headless hug doll wasn’t really outside the realm of Virgil’s aesthetic. 

Could creepy and pitiful be an aesthetic? 

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 

I am so pathetic.

Things had gotten...well. Bad. But the worst part of all of this wasn’t the fact that it had happened. No, the worst part was that there was literally no one to blame for it but himself. 

It was his fault. He’d fucked up. Big time.

The whole mess had started after he’d decided to cut himself off from Thomas. When he’d decided that Thomas, and by extension the others, would truly be better off without him. While he’d honestly meant well, that had not gone as he’d expected, and the others had been forced to come after him and beg him to come back. 

That had been really nice, at first--hearing them say all those good things about him, explain why he was important, and why they wanted him around. Even Roman had gotten in on the act, and Virgil had been so moved, he’d risked giving them his name. And--Princey’s little snort of suppressed laughter notwithstanding--they’d actually been pretty nice about that, too. For a few brief, shining moments, he’d felt accepted. Wanted. 

But after they’d sunk back into the mindscape and he’d returned to his room, he’d had time to rethink the situation, and the fog of blissful happiness had evaporated under the harsh light of the more probable reality: of course they’d been nice to him, sucking up to him, claiming to want him around. They’d realized they needed him, and needing something was not the same as wanting it. They needed him the same way people needed a seat belt or a pair of knee pads. He was a tool, but...but while you might appreciate the function of a tool, you didn’t love it. You just...used it when necessary, then put it away and didn’t think about it until next time. 

They were being nice to him now because they thought he wouldn’t do his job if they stopped, not because they suddenly liked him.

(Well...okay, Patton maybe did a little. But Patton was Patton. He quite literally loved everyone. He probably would love a pair of knee pads.)

But part of the ‘being nice’ to Virgil routine they were all working on now apparently included...touching him. Not a lot, not...not nearly enough to make the constant ache go away, but...but more. 

Logan had grabbed his arm yesterday to pull him closer and show him a chart he’d made. Roman had laid his hand on Virgil’s shoulder for a moment in the kitchen after Virgil had mumbled good morning to him. And Patton had actually slung his arm across Virgil’s shoulder for a few seconds just this afternoon, after Virgil had contributed an idea during a brainstorming session. 

He’d said something, too--something like, “Good thinking, kiddo!”--but Virgil had been reeling too much under the brief warmth of his arm to really absorb it. He’d mumbled an excuse and slipped away, sinking back to his room, curling up on his bed and shaking for almost an hour as he waited for the burning phantom sensation where Patton had touched him to fade. 

It was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, they were touching him, yes. Not as much as he wanted (or needed), but they were touching him. 

But they weren’t doing it because they wanted to--because they enjoyed it, or enjoyed him. 

No; what they were doing was...purposeful. Calculated. They were worried about what it would do to Thomas if he left again, not about him. They were trying to placate him with their little touches, their smiles, their kind words and their efforts to include him. The gestures weren’t genuine. They were, in fact, nothing more than appeasement--offerings to placate a temperamental deity (or, more accurately, grudging concessions meant to keep a toddler from throwing another tantrum).

And it sucked. It was so very much worse than before, because now...now he had a taste. He knew what it could be like, if they ever really did feel about him the way he did about them. 

And he knew how it felt to be really, actually touched. 

Showers, no matter how long or hot, were worthless now. The scalding water still felt cold compared to the warmth of Logan’s palm on his wrist. Blankets, even weighted blankets, could not match the living weight of Roman’s hand on his shoulder. And his hoodie could never hope to match the security of Patton’s arm around his shoulders. 

His coping strategies were completely defunct. And the tiny taste of contact had made him more desperate for touch than ever before. 

Well. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And there was nothing more desperate than what Virgil was doing now. 

The hug doll was crudely made: nothing more than an oversized body pillow in a shirt, whose sleeves he’d stuffed with the foam filling of another pillow sacrificed to the cause. He’d tacked the sleeves together carefully so as not to damage the cuffs, creating a loop of “arms” for him to crawl into. 

All that was bad enough. But what was worse--what took the whole thing from vaguely pitiful to downright pathetic--was the clothing itself. Or more specifically, where it had come from. 

He’d tried dressing it with his own shirts at first, but while the enclosed feeling of the arms around him had been nice, it had been missing something. Patton had given him the answer today, when he’d leaned in for that half-hug that had been the most incredible three and a half seconds of Virgil’s life. 

That was when Virgil had identified the problem: his shirts smelled like him, and he didn’t want a hug from himself. 

The solution? Sneak into the others’ rooms like a thief in the night and borrow a few items he was fairly sure wouldn’t be missed. 

This he’d done while they had been having a Parks and Rec marathon. He’d ducked out early (no one had protested) and retreated upstairs, every nerve-ending on edge as he listened for the tell-tale squeak of someone ascending the stairs. 

But no one did, and Virgil was able to commit his thievery without being detected.

From Logan, he’d grabbed a polo shirt: one of probably thirty near-identical shirts that had been hanging, pristine and tidy, in the logical side’s closet. The empty hanger had stood out like a sore thumb afterward, so he’d sneaked that too, hoping that Logan’s meticulousness didn’t extend to actually keeping count of the garments. 

He’d snuck into Patton’s room next, and found one of his older cardigans. Patton was nowhere near as tidy as Logan, and his clothing was haphazardly scattered around his room, so Virgil had felt more secure about borrowing some of it. He’d snagged an older gray cardigan that had been half-buried behind the dresser, and hurried back out of the room. 

Escaping prince’s room with one of his coveted sashes had been nerve wracking, and he’d half expected to step into the hall and find himself at sword point. But then he’d heard Prince’s booming laughter from the commons downstairs, and knew he’d managed to get away with his crime. He hurried back to his room and locked the door behind him. 

Now, sitting on his bed, he surveyed his finished work. 

Damn, a voice whispered in his mind. Just look at you. You’re literally so unwanted that you have to resort to stealing--just so you can fake a hug? Pitiful. 

And maybe it was. But he couldn’t help but be excited, too. This was going to be the closest approximation yet, he was certain of it. All it would lack was warmth. 

Although come to think of it...

He scrambled away from the doll and rummaged through his closet until he found what he was after: a heating pad, the kind meant for sore backs or tense muscles. He plugged it in and turned it on low, then stuffed it under the polo shirt.

Perfect. He smiled to himself, nodding once, thinking this just might be enough impetus to get him into bed at a reasonable hour. It wasn’t late at all--just barely midnight--but he couldn’t wait until his usual 3-4 am to try it out. 

He wandered to his bathroom and brushed his teeth, but before he could remove his make-up, he was startled by a knock at his bedroom door.

He froze, startled--unexpected knocking always put him on edge--and called warily, “Who-who is it?” 

“Virgil? It’s Patton.” Morality’s friendly voice was muffled by the door, but Virgil still heard the note of worry in the tone. “Is everything okay, kiddo?” 

“Uh...yeah, everything’s fine, Pat.” He turned off the sink and wiped hurriedly at his mouth, then rushed over to the door, relieved to see the lock bolt was firmly in place.

“Are you sure? You’ve been awfully quiet up here...can I come in?” 

Virgil hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the oddly-attired pillow lying incriminatingly on his mattress. “Uh--no, now’s...not really a good time, Pat.” 

“Oh.” Virgil cringed at the note of sadness in Patton’s voice. “Well, sure, kiddo, I don’t want to intrude. Just...you let me know if you need anything at all, okay?” 

For a second, he almost did. For the barest fraction of a second, Virgil actually considered throwing open the door, drawing Patton into the room, showing him the pillow, and confessing everything. His loneliness. His shame. His desperate desire for physical contact. 

But no. That wouldn’t be right. Patton would...would do everything he could to help him. He’d probably even give Virgil a hug. But how awful would it be to force him into that, just because he knew Patton wouldn’t say no? 

“Okay,” Virgil said at last. “I will.” 

Patton didn’t reply, but Virgil heard the creak of the floorboards outside his room as the moral side moved away and headed back downstairs to rejoin the others, fatherly duty fulfilled. He breathed out a sigh of relief, double-checked the bolt on his door, then hurried back to bed. There, he laid his hand atop the pillow, testing the warmth, and nodded in satisfaction to himself. 

It was time.

Virgil felt oddly shy as he stripped off his hoodie and his shirt, wanting maximum skin contact with his creation. He knew there was no reason to be--the pillow wasn’t them, of course, but...but it was their clothing, and there was something strangely...intimate about the arrangement. He bit his lip, wondering for a moment if he’d even be able to work up the nerve to use the damned thing, now that he’d made it. 

Pathetic! his mind cried. Absolutely pathetic! 

He scowled, and crawled onto the bed before he could chicken out, ducking his head under the loop of the doll’s arms and sliding up until they were secured around his shoulders. Then he wrapped his arms around the pillow-body, buried his face against it, and drew a deep breath.

Oh. 

His own self-loathing and anxiety evaporated under the sensory explosion that assaulted him. LoganPattonRoman his mind screamed as the scents on their clothing surrounded him. Patton’s cardigan was the loudest--cut grass and some kind of bright, clean lemony detergent smell, underlay with a sweetness like baking cookies--and it was soft under and warm, like Patton himself. Then Logan’s polo, beneath that: a pleasant if subtler mix of old paper and dust and ink and coffee, the fabric a little bit stiff but still strangely welcoming. Roman’s sash, while not as fragrant as the others, was smooth and silky under his cheek, and there was the faintest hint of something grand--rose petals and dusty stone, like ancient castles in verdant fields. 

He didn’t even realize he was crying until he felt a tear drop from his nose and onto the cardigan sleeve. Forgetting that he’d never removed his make-up, he scrubbed his eyes clumsily against the shoulder of the cardigan, leaving a smear of black eye shadow on the fabric. He winced, but didn’t move away--he’d figure out how to clean it later. Right now...

Right now. He was warm, and he could feel the fabric pressed in against him, across his chest and abdomen, and the band of contact of the sleeves across his back. He became aware that in spite of his tears, he was grinning broadly. This. This was what a hug felt like--he was sure of it. This was what it would be like, if they...

If they loved him. 

He shuddered softly, and snuggled in closer, gripping the pillow against him. 

He fell asleep still smiling. 

*


	3. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil should have known he couldn't keep it a secret forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Heavy angst, yelling, anger, panic attacks, self-loathing, negative self-talk.

The doll worked.

The others were still being weirdly affectionate with him--still giving him the occasional little touches that made his chest ache and set his skin on fire--but the doll soothed them. When he crawled into bed and snuggled into its embrace, the ache eased. Not all the way, but...well, that was always going to be true. He’d grown to accept that there would probably never be a perfect substitute for a real hug, but as far as he was concerned, this was close enough. 

And besides, he’d never have to know the difference.

The doll had unexpected side effects, too. For one, Virgil was getting more sleep. The anticipation of being “held” urged him to bed hours earlier than usual, and he was so comfortable, surrounded by the scents of the others, that he drifted into a deeper sleep than he’d ever experienced before. Even the nightmares were staying mostly at bay, as his subconscious detected the scents of the other sides and decided Virgil was safe because they were close. 

The effects of the sleep were dramatic. He had an appetite for the first time ever. He didn’t need so much coffee to stay awake, so he switched to the occasional glass of juice or water, which in turn gave him more energy. He could concentrate better, and he found--to his enormous surprise and delight--that his mind was less likely to start spiraling down into worst-case scenarios.

He tried to keep up his ‘edgy’ persona around the others, because he didn’t need anything making them suspicious. But it was getting harder to keep up, because he honestly felt...good. He was, for maybe the first time in his life, actually happy. He thought maybe he could stay that way. 

He should have known better.

The day that everything fell apart was pleasantly rainy. Virgil sat in the commons with Logan and Patton, passing the afternoon in companionable silence. He was curled in his chair, listening to music; Logan sat on one corner of the couch reading, and Patton was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, coloring in an intricate design in a zen coloring book. It was quiet, but peacefully so, and after a time Virgil had secretly turned his music off to better enjoy the sounds of the rain pattering on the glass, the soft scratch of Patton’s colored pencils, and the occasional rustle of Logan turning a page in his book. 

He was so relaxed he was halfway to dozing when Roman suddenly bellowed angrily from upstairs: “What on _earth_ is _this!?”_

Virgil jumped, heart instantly pounding wildly in his chest. He spun in his chair, turning to face the stairs, every nerve ending alert as he looked for the danger. Logan and Patton did the same, just as Roman appeared at the top of the stairway, holding--

_Oh no. Oh God no. No no no no no._

The air was punched from Virgil’s lungs as he gaped in horror. 

The pillow doll hung limp from Roman’s grasp, pitiful and strange, and there was thunderous fury writ across the royal’s features as he glowered down at Virgil. Virgil felt the gossamer threads of the veil of happiness he’d woven around himself dissolving in the fiery heat of Roman’s anger, like the blaze of the morning sun burning through the remains of a clinging mist. He gripped the arms of the chair hard enough his knuckles cracked, trying desperately to drag a breath into lungs frozen with panic.

_No no no no no no._

Logan adjusted his glasses, squinting up at the pillow doll, then frowned. “Is--is that my polo?” he asked. 

“Hey, that’s my cardigan!” Patton looked delighted for a moment. “I’ve been looking for that, it’s my fav...” he trailed off, squinting, then said, “Did...did you sew the sleeves together?” 

Logan and Patton both turned to stare at Virgil, Logan with a frown of confusion and Patton looking--oh, God, looking upset, and Roman was still furious, as he stalked down the stairs, waving the pillow at Virgil. 

“I went into your room to see if you were there. I wanted to ask your advice on an idea I’d had, and instead--instead, I find this. I can’t believe this, Virgil. You _stole_ our _clothes?_ Did you seriously come into my room and just--and just take my sash?” 

“Now, Roman,” Patton said, lifting a hand. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Right? Virgil?” He turned to look at Virgil, eyes wide and pleading. Virgil could read the thoughts behind them easily: _C’mon, kiddo, please tell me you did this for a good reason, please tell me you’re not just a loser and a freak and a thief, please tell me I didn’t stand up for you all this time only to find out this is who you really are._

“What is it, then?” Roman glowered. He’d stalked over until he was standing right above Virgil, and shook the doll at him again. “How do you explain this, huh? Is this your punching bag? Your voodoo doll? What?” 

Virgil’s ears were ringing, and Roman’s voice was ripping through him like claws, leaving him dripping and raw and vulnerable. The doll, instead of making him feel safe, now seemed to mock him, its headless shape leering at him in blank accusation. 

“Well?” Roman demanded again. “Come on, then, _Virgil,_ if you’re such a good guy, explain this to me. Explain why you felt the need to steal our clothes and make some kind of...freakish effigy of us.” 

“Roman...” That was Logan. “Please try to calm down.” 

“I will not calm down! I want to hear him explain this! I want to hear why, when we’ve been trying so hard to be nice to him, to include him, he feels he has to steal things from us. I want him to explain why he’s decided to ruin our things. Is it just all you know how to do?!”

Virgil finally snapped out of his frozen panic as his fight-or-flight instinct finally made its decision. 

A wild noise escaped his throat, and he unwound from his coiled, defensive position on the chair, springing forward and snatching the doll from Roman’s grip. Roman was startled enough at the sudden movement that he took a staggering step backward, letting go of the pillow. 

Virgil took full advantage of Roman’s momentarily startled state, knowing it wouldn’t last long. He dashed past the prince, vaulted himself over the couch (Logan cried, ‘Hey!’ as Virgil nearly kicked him) and sprang for the stairs. He took them in enormous leaps, too distraught to realize he could’ve just sunk out. He distantly heard the others calling after him, but he ignored them. His breath was coming in huge, whooping gasps, and he was not at all surprised to realize there were tears flying down his face. 

When he got to his room, he slammed the door and bolted it immediately. When he was sure it was locked, he turned and slid down the frame until he sat on the ground, sobbing as he clung to the pillow. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and distantly, he knew he was having a panic attack, but none of his usual coping strategies were helpful. It was several long seconds before he could even seem to draw in any air, and even then, it stung, tearing at his chest, inflating his lungs too far and making his chest feel like it was going to explode. 

He was a freak. He was such a freak. What kind of pathetic idiot stole people’s clothes just so he could pretend they liked him enough to give him a hug?! What kind of loser needed that much validation? Dammit, he was such a...such...such a...

He sobbed again, and abruptly, he flung the pillow doll away from him, scrabbling back and hunching himself in the corner, backing away from the doll as if it were a venomous snake that might lunge out and bite him. 

But then...it’d already done that, hadn’t it? It lay unassuming on his carpet, headless, a body pillow half-dressed in stolen clothing and staring at him in silent accusation. He could practically hear it: _Why didn’t you see this coming? Aren’t you supposed to be the one who sees when things are dangerous and stupid? How could you possibly think making me was going to end well for you?_

_You’re not just pathetic, you’re bad at your job. No wonder they all hate you._

_No wonder they want you gone._

Virgil’s sobs were so harsh they were silent, as he curled in on himself and hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face against them. He could hear the sounds of commotion outside his door--loud knocking, voices calling his name, demanding he let them in. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t face them yet. Though he knew he deserved everything they had to tell him, he couldn’t manage to unwind himself from his protective ball in the corner. Eventually, the sounds faded, as the others gave up and left him alone. 

Where he belonged. 

Where he would always belong. 

Alone. 

Later--much, much later, when he could bear to move, when he could bear to approach the doll and touch it again--he would take it apart. He would take their clothes to his bathroom and hand-wash them in the tub, then hang them carefully to dry. He would get the eye shadow stains out of Patton’s cardigan and undo the careful stitching on the sleeves. He would iron Logan’s polo and smooth the wrinkles out of Princey’s sash. He would wait until it was late--late enough that the others were sure to be asleep--and creep into the hall, placing each stolen item of clothing, neatly folded, outside its respective owner’s door. 

And then he would barricade himself in his room, curl up on his too-big, too-empty bed, and try to sleep, while the shadows crept back in around him and the nightmares returned with a vengeance, all too ready to resume their taunting. 

But for now...for now, he would sit in his room, listening to the voice inside his head sneering at him about just how pathetic he really was. He’d do his best to learn that this was what happened, when someone like him tried to make things better for himself. 

And he’d do his best to understand that this was what happened, when he reached too far and tried too hard for the things he’d never, ever deserve. 

*


	4. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil has to face the other sides again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes: I’m so sorry for the delay on this one! As you might imagine, this chapter had a bit riding on it, emotionally speaking, and I wanted to be sure I got it right. Big thanks to @thuriweaver for helping me out and providing a critical sounding board each time I wrote myself into a corner! 
> 
> CW: Negative self-talk, self-loathing, anxiety, panic, nightmares, misunderstandings, cursing

It was early the next evening before Virgil could bring himself to face the other sides again. 

That night had been easily one of the most miserable of his life. After taking apart the doll and stealthily returning the pilfered articles of clothing, he’d retreated to his room and locked his door, then crawled into his bed. As he’d feared, it felt huge and far too empty, and he found himself shivering, unaccountably cold. He realized he’d gotten used to having the warmth of the heating pad cradled to his chest as he embraced the pillow. 

He briefly considered recommissioning the heating pad by itself, but quickly dismissed the idea. It... _hurt_ , somehow: the thought of using part of the doll only. It was stupid, he _knew_  it was stupid, but he found himself almost mourning the thing, like it’d been a friend or something, and he couldn’t bear to think about trying to create a substitute. 

Besides which, he shouldn’t _need_ one. He should never have needed the doll in the first place. It was that kind of weakness that made the others hate him so much, and if he ever wanted to be someone they could respect (or at least someone they didn’t despise), he needed to stop being so pathetic. 

So he’d huddled up in bed, shivering under the layers of blankets he’d piled on instead, trying not to give in to the fear that was creeping around the edges of his thoughts. 

But it was difficult. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the other sides, staring at him in disgust and anger. He’d jerk back awake, heart pounding and tears streaming from his eyes, a half-formed apology still on his lips. And then he’d lie in bed, trying not to cry, missing the doll with all his heart. 

It was late--or rather, early--by the time he did drift off, exhaustion finally allowing his troubled mind to slip into a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But it wasn’t peaceful sleep. The nightmares that had plagued him before he’d created the doll returned with a vengeance, just as he’d feared they would. They were mostly vague--shadowy shapes that loomed in corners exuding _threat_  and _danger--_ but there were a few new ones in the repertoire, all featuring the other sides. Mostly they were giving him the same horrified looks they’d given him in the commons, or calling him names like _freak_  and _loser._ But in one particularly awful dream, they’d been talking to Thomas about him, outlining his flaws and discussing all the reasons they should get rid of him after all. Just before he’d awakened, he’d been listening to Logan and Roman discuss ways they could work together to take over Anxiety’s job duties, with Logic examining situations for potential danger and Roman handling the fight-or-flight response accordingly. Thomas had been nodding along, looking thoughtful, and Patton had been beaming, proud that they’d finally solved Thomas’s ongoing ‘problem.’ Virgil had awakened from that one halfway to a panic attack, and though he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, he elected not to try for any more. 

Besides...if this was what his nights were going to be like without the doll, he figured he’d better get used to being tired again. 

He spent most of the afternoon hiding in his room, listening for the sounds of the other sides. He kept expecting one of them to knock, demand that he come out and explain himself, but no one ever did. Virgil’s overwrought nerves couldn’t decide if that meant they were waiting for him to own up to the situation on his own, or if they simply didn’t care enough to bother with him. 

He couldn’t decide which would be worse.

At last, though, he decided that even if they _didn’t_  particularly care about him, he at least owed them an apology. He _had_  stolen their things. And if he could apologize for it...maybe they’d be willing to let it go. After all, there was no harm done: he’d returned the items, good as new. Even Patton’s cardigan, which he’d managed to get the makeup stain out of after watching a few youtube tutorials on the subject. 

And if they didn’t care, then maybe they wouldn’t bother asking _why_  he’d stolen them. They could just chalk it up to one of his idiosyncrasies and shrug it off. They might still be mad for awhile, but as long as he didn’t do it again, maybe they’d get over it, and they could just go back to the way things were. 

He really should have known better. 

When he finally emerged, it was nearly dinner time, the first thing he saw upon opening his door was that someone had taped a folded note to it. He gulped, pulling it down with shaking fingers and unfolded it. 

_Virgil,_ _please come downstairs when you are able. We need to talk._

The note was written in Logan’s cramped scrawl. Virgil felt the blood drain from his face, his heart beginning to pound. He closed his eyes, gripping the note tightly and hearing the paper crinkle in warning, and took several long, deep breaths. He couldn’t quite manage his usual 4-7-8 rhythm, but he was at least able to stave off the first fluttering beats of panic’s wings in his chest. He swallowed nervously, and tucked it into his pocket, before taking a moment to compose himself. 

 _Well. Time to face the music._   

His legs were shaking as he descended the stairs. His heart had set up camp in his throat, and was pounding there loud enough he was sure the others heard him coming long before they saw him. They were sitting on the couch, facing the TV, which was playing The Emperor’s New Groove. Virgil swallowed again, thinking wryly that it had always been one of his favorites; he hoped he’d still be able to watch it after today without it bringing up too many bad memories. 

Logan noticed him first, glancing over his shoulder when a floorboard creaked under Virgil’s weight. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV, getting the others’ attentions, too--they all turned and looked at him at once, and Virgil looked at his feet, bile rising from the pit of his stomach to sit sour at the back of his throat. 

“Virgil. We were just debating whether we should come up after you,” Logan said. His voice--as always--was even and calm, and Virgil cursed the logical side for being so hard to read.   


He shrugged, once. “M’here,” he mumbled. 

“So you are. Why don’t you come and have a seat, buddy?” That was Patton, kind to the end. Of course.   


Virgil drew in a breath, and stepped forward, moving around to his chair. He crawled in and drew up his legs, hugging them to his chest as if they might shield his heart from what he was about to hear. When he dared glance up, he saw the others were still watching him, their faces unreadable (except, again, Patton, who was looking at him with what could only be described as pity). He also noticed, to his chagrin, that the stolen articles of clothing were currently laid out on the coffee table in front of them. 

“We need to talk about this,” Logan said softly. “But we wanted to give you a chance to have your say, first. So.” He adjusted his glasses, and nodded at Virgil. “Go ahead.” 

Virgil huddled in on himself, wishing he’d thought to pull up his hood before coming downstairs. It’d be too conspicuous--too _obvious_ \--to do so now. 

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. Then--because that really wasn’t going to cut it--he forced himself to speak louder and more clearly: “I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have, um.” He nodded at the table. “I sh-shouldn’t have taken your clothes. So m’sorry.”   


Logan and the others waited, and Virgil had a moment of panic, trying to figure out what else he should say. Did they want more groveling? More debasement? What? God, he wished one of them would just _say_  something already; this silent treatment was killing him. 

“Well. That is appreciated, kiddo,” Patton said at last, sighing softly. He sounded disappointed, and Virgil--God, Virgil wanted to cry. Why--why the _hell_  hadn’t he hidden the damned pillow better?   


“I suppose it’ll do for now,” Roman agreed, settling back and frowning at Virgil.   


“We would like to extend an olive branch,” Logan said after another moment of stifling silence. “None of us have missed your improvement over the last few months. We had...perhaps falsely attributed it to our efforts to include you upon learning your name. But it seems clear now there was another coping strategy in your employ.”   


Virgil hunched his shoulders, nodding miserably. 

Patton slumped visibly, nodding as well. “I see. Well...I can’t say that we aren’t...a little disappointed, kiddo,” he softly. “But if this is what you need...we don’t want to take that from you. So...” He pushed his cardigan, neatly folded, forward on the coffee table. Roman and Logan did the same with their own clothing, before settling back again. None of them seemed quite willing to meet his gaze, except Patton, who looked...hurt.   


_Oh God._  

“I...you d-don’t have to,” Virgil whispered, as their faces blurred in front of him. “I get it. It’s...weird. I’m s--I’m sorry.”   


Roman stood and moved away, over to the window, gazing out at the mindscape beyond with his hands clasped behind his back. Patton looked down at his hands where they were folded in his lap. Only Logan met his eyes, calm and quiet. 

“It’s...it’s not that weird,” he said softly. “There are plenty of psychologists who prescribe anger management dolls to their patients. I believe they are colloquially known as ‘dammit dolls.’ And many cultures used to burn figures in effigy, though for the sake of fire safety I appreciate that you have refrained from doing so here.”   


At first, Virgil was so confused he couldn’t even speak. He could only stare, stunned, as Logan continued: “In fact, I have to admit, you did an excellent job keeping our clothing intact. I suppose I can admire your restraint, all things considered.” 

Coherent thought slammed back into Virgil, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Wait, what the _hell_  are you talking about?” 

That got everyone’s attention again; Roman turned to frown at him from the window, and Patton looked up from staring at his lap. 

“What...what do you mean?” Logan said slowly, frowning, glancing at the other two before looking back at Virgil, bewildered.   


“You...you think I was...beating up your clothes?” Virgil couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sure, Princey had thrown the suggestion at him when he’d discovered the doll yesterday, but Virgil had just assumed...once they’d taken a moment to really think about it, the doll’s real use would have been obvious.  


“What else would you have been doing?” Roman said slowly, his frown turning to one of genuine confusion. Even Patton looked baffled, his head tilted inquisitively to one side, and Virgil groaned, hiding his face in his hands.   


“Virgil? What?” Logan asked. “What is it?”   


Well. Great. Now he’d have to tell them, because...because he couldn’t let them go on thinking... 

“Guys. It...it was...it was a hug doll,” he mumbled into his hands.   


“A what?”   


“A _hug doll_ ,” he said, just short of yelling. He flushed, humiliated, and continued: “It...I...I made it so I could. Um. S-see...see what it would be like.”   


“What  _what_ would be like?” Patton breathed, eyes wide and wet with tears.   


“To, um. To you know.” He waved a hand vaguely. _Please don’t make me say it._    


“To get...to get a hug?” Roman whispered, now staring at Virgil like Virgil had just told him Disney was cancelled forever.   


Virgil hunched in on himself, looking down at his knees and letting his hair obscure his features. He shrugged again. “Stupid, I know,” he mumbled, face aflame. 

“Virgil...” Logan sounded...strange. Choked. Virgil flinched a little. _Dammit_.   


“Yeah. I said I know. So, um...let’s just...pretend this never happened, and never mention it again, okay?” He waved his hand at the clothes. “I’m guessing you’ll want to take those back,” he added.   


There was a beat of awkward silence. Then Patton rose to his feet. “Yeah,” he declared, voice quavering. “Yeah, we _do_.” 

Virgil flinched. But before he could figure out a way to gracefully escape the situation, Patton said: “Because you, Virgil Sanders, are _never_ going to need a fucking  _hug doll_  again.” 

The shock of hearing the curse leaving Patton’s mouth made Virgil look up, and he was momentarily gratified to see he wasn’t the only one staring at Patton in surprise. But his attention was quickly taken by Patton, who was glaring at him with tears on his face, his hands curled into fists and his chest heaving. He stalked forward and held out his hand, which was shaking only a little. Unable to think or do otherwise, Virgil took it, his mind barely able to process the sensation of _warm strong real!_  before Patton all but yanked him to his feet. 

When they were standing toe-to-toe, Patton put his hands on Virgil’s shoulders ( _warm strong safe real real REAL)_ , and said, “Virgil. Unless you beg me not to _right now_ , I am going to hug you.” 

“I...I...” Virgil couldn’t get out the words. His head was spinning, the _room_  was spinning, and his vision was starting to tunnel just a little. All he could see was Patton’s face, inches from his own.   


“Well?” Patton said, stepping closer, until Virgil could _feel_  the heat from his body, _warm warm warm REAL--_  


“Patton.” Logan’s voice was alarmed and distant, coming from very far away. “Patton, wait, I think you need to--”  


“Logan...he’s going to--”  


“Shit. Patton! Grab him!”  


“Roman!”   


“I’ve got him.”  


The last thing Virgil knew was the feeling of strong arms encircling his waist from behind, and a broad, powerful chest pressing in against his back. 

Then the world went dark. 

* 


	5. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue conversation is had between Virgil and the other Sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Negative self-talk, some swearing, angst, mild panic

When Virgil came to, he was lying on his back on the couch, and the others were leaning over him, peering down at him anxiously. 

He stiffened, startled, and in the scant seconds before memory returned, half a dozen panicked thoughts raced through his head: _what do they want what did I do why are they here what’s wrong what’s wrong what’s happening what’s wrong?_  

Then it came back in a mortifying rush, and he realized what had happened: he’d fainted. He’d actually fucking _fainted_. Right after--right after admitting--

“Oh, God,” Virgil groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his face.   


“Virgil. You’re awake,” Logan said, and there was no mistaking the relief in his voice.

 _Huh_.   


He grunted a vague affirmative, but didn’t lower his hands. 

“Virgil? Kiddo? You okay?”   


Virgil peeked out from between his fingers at Patton, who had crouched down and was eye-level with him, right next to the couch. His eyes were filled with guilt and worry, and he raised his hand toward Virgil’s arm, but stopped before making contact and lowered it once more. 

 _Probably afraid I might faint again if he touches me,_  Virgil thought, heart sinking. _Of course. My one chance to actually get a real honest-to-goodness hug, and I fucking ruin it by...by_ fainting _._

He was never going to live this down. 

“I’m fine, Patton,” he mumbled, lowering his hands and pushing himself upright clumsily. The room spun for a moment, and he blinked, wondering if he was about to pass out again. But it stabilized again after a few seconds, much to his relief.  


“Do you...need anything?” Roman said awkwardly, shifting from his place next to the arm of the couch. “Water, perhaps?”   


“Yes,” Logan interrupted, before Virgil could speak. “And get him something to eat, too. Peanut butter crackers or a granola bar or something. And juice.” 

“I’m on it,” Roman said gratefully, sprinting-- _escaping--_ to the kitchen. Virgil watched him go, feeling lousier than ever.   


“I’m...I’m really fine, guys,” he said softly. Crap. Now he’d gotten them thinking he was some kind of invalid they had to take care of. That was going to go a really long way toward helping improve that whole ‘pathetic’ thing he had going. 

Awesome. 

“You fainted, Virgil,” Logan stated.   


“Yeah, I’m aware.”  


“Which means you are probably either exhausted, dehydrated, or your blood sugar is low,” Logan continued, arching a brow at him. “Because I doubt you otherwise would have fainted just from Patton threatening to hug you. Frightening as that may have been,” he added, slanting a wry glance at Patton, who shrugged sheepishly back at him.   


“I may have been a little over zealous about it,” he admitted.   


“All the same,” Logan said, “eating and drinking something will help. We clearly have several things to discuss, and I want to make sure you’re properly energized and hydrated.”   


Before Virgil could begin to properly worry (panic) over what those things might be, Roman returned from the kitchen, and Virgil’s brain screeched to a momentary halt. 

“Is there anything  _left_ in the kitchen now, Princey?” he asked, staring wide-eyed at the tray in the royal’s hands.   


Prince flushed and shrugged, shooting Virgil a scowl as he set the tray--which was piled high with what had to be at least half the contents of their kitchen--on the coffee table. “I didn’t know what might sound good to you, so...” he shrugged, and waved at the food. 

“So you brought everything?” Virgil said, peering at the spread: cheese slices, three different kinds of crackers, peanut butter, grapes, granola bars, pop tarts, cookies, thin cuts of lunch meat, and a box of leftover cold pizza. There were also several slices of bread, a bottle of water, and a glass of what looked like orange juice. Virgil had to spare a moment to be impressed with how quickly Roman had gotten it all together.   


“I thought maybe the rest of us might want something to eat, too,” Roman defended, grabbing a cracker to prove his point (though he made no move to eat it).  


“Right. Sorry.” Virgil almost smiled. It would be...sweet, if he thought Roman was acting out of anything other than guilt. “So. What...what, uh--what happens now?”   


“Now, you at least drink that orange juice,” Logan said, settling down next to Virgil on the couch--though not close enough to touch him. Virgil bit back a sigh, and grabbed the cup, draining it in three huge gulps. No sense in dragging this out; everyone was clearly massively uncomfortable and he doubted things were going to get any better. The faster he could let them tell him off, or whatever it was they wanted to do, the sooner he could disappear again, and then they’d all be better off. 

“Okay,” he said, thunking the empty glass down on the coffee table. “Orange juice, drunk. Now what?” He cringed, hearing his voice quaver at the end of his sentence. 

Logan adjusted his glasses and glancing at Patton.   


Patton sighed, moving to sit on the other side of Virgil on the couch. Roman remained standing, cracker uneaten in his hand. 

“Virgil,” Patton said, and Virgil braced himself, tensing. _Here it comes._  


Patton noticed, and slumped, his eyes heartbroken. “Sweetheart, no--you’re not in trouble. Or...or whatever you think is about to happen. We just want to understand.” 

“Understand?” Virgil echoed.   


Patton nodded. He drew a shaky breath, then said, “Honey, we had no _idea_. If--if you wanted a hug, why not just ask for one? Why...why make a hug doll?” 

Virgil shrugged, looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap. God, he would give just about anything to be just about _anywhere_  else right now. “I dunno.” 

“Did you think we would turn you down or say no, if you asked?”   


“N-no,” Virgil said haltingly, because--because that wasn’t the problem, was it? At least...it hadn’t been, ever since he’d revealed his name to them. Before that, when he’d just been the antagonist, just _Anxiety_ \--yeah, they would’ve said no, obviously, but... 

But since his attempt to leave--to free Thomas from his influence for good--well, they’d just about proven that they’d do whatever it took, say or do whatever they had to, to keep him from running away. Not because they cared about _him_ , but because it would hurt Thomas, and none of them would allow that to happen.

So yeah, he was quite sure they’d hug him, if he asked. But how could he? How could he ask them for anything, knowing they might just give it to him because they thought they _had_  to? 

“Then what is it?” Patton said, again reaching toward Virgil’s hands, but stopping short of actually touching him. 

Virgil swallowed, hugging himself, the orange juice churning unpleasantly in his stomach and sitting like acid on the back of his tongue. “It’s...I don’t...I don’t want you to say yes just because I asked,” he mumbled. 

That seemed to give them pause. Patton blinked at him, doing his bewildered head tilt again, then looked to Logan, who was for once looking equally mystified. 

"I’m confused,” Logan said. “Why _wouldn’t_ you want us to say yes? If your intent in asking was to procure a hug, wouldn’t our agreement be the optimal outcome? I don’t--I don’t understand.”  


“I think I do,” Roman said suddenly, voice soft and more serious than Virgil ha ever heard it. When Virgil glanced up, Roman was looking at him, expression a mix of compassion and dawning comprehension. It was a gentle look, soft, but also somehow sharp, as if it could cut him open and reveal all the things inside he didn’t want anyone to see. Virgil swallowed, shrinking in on himself and hugging his knees. 

Roman set his uneaten cracker aside and moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of Virgil. He leaned in, still giving Virgil that intense, scrutinizing stare, and Virgil would have closed his eyes if he could have, but he found he couldn’t look away. 

“You think,” Roman said, “that by asking us, you’re removing our ability to choose. That somehow, by making your desires known, you’re...obligating us to fulfill them. Is that about right?” 

Virgil swallowed, and shrugged, looking away from Roman’s burning stare at last. “I...yeah, I guess so.” 

“What?” Patton cried. “Why? Why would you think--” 

Roman held up a hand, and Patton closed his mouth, but his eyes were still distressed as he looked from Virgil to Roman.   


“You don’t believe we might give you something you asked for because we genuinely wanted to. Am I right?”   


Virgil swallowed, eyes stinging. “Yeah.”   


Roman nodded once. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “the question now becomes: why do you think we wouldn’t _want_ to hug you?”   


Virgil shuddered, closing his eyes, and a few humiliated tears slipped free. God, he wanted this to be over. Why couldn’t this be _over_?

“Virgil?” Roman prodded, reaching forward and laying a hand on Virgil’s ankle.   


Virgil sucked in a breath at the contact. “Because...because you never _have_ ,” he said, and there it was, laid out: the painfully plain truth of the matter. “You’ve _never_ wanted to...to touch me. Ever. I was...I was the bad guy, remember? You all ha-hated me.” The tears were flowing now, and distantly Virgil knew he should feel embarrassed or ashamed, but all he felt was empty. Unwanted. _Alone._ He slumped, burying his head in his arms, which were still wrapped over his knees. He was suddenly utterly exhausted, and he didn’t want to do this anymore. 

“It’s okay,” he continued, his voice now quiet and dull. “I get it. You...you want to make sure Thomas is all right, and now you know he needs me, so you’re trying to make sure I don’t leave him. But I won’t. I won’t abandon him again. You don’t...you don’t have to worry about that.” He swallowed, then whispered, “You don’t have to worry about me.” 

The others were silent for several long seconds, and Virgil nodded to himself, face crumpling. Well. There it was, then. At least it was all out in the open, and...and that was...good. He didn’t have to live under the crushing worry that they’d find out how pathetic he was anymore, because now they just...knew. There was relief in that--a sick, twisted, dark sort of relief, but relief all the same.

He reached up and wiped at his tears, nodding again. “Anyway,” he sighed, unfolding himself from the couch, “I won’t...I won’t take your clothes anymore. I’m really sorry I ever--”

He didn’t get any further, because suddenly, a warm body slammed into his, knocking him back down onto the couch. He cried out, alarmed, his fight or flight response kicking into gear and sending a flood of adrenaline through his veins-- _they’re attacking me they hate me they’ll hurt me run run run run--_  but then he realized a pair of arms had wound their way around his back, and someone was--was sobbing into his shoulder, and--

Sensations flooded through Virgil, and for several seconds he forgot to breathe. _Warm_ , his brain screamed at him. _Warm warm warm! Solid alive real!_ Then the smells: _safe warm home soft Patton Patton Patton_. 

He was enclosed, encircled, safe, _held._

Patton was holding him. Patton was--was _hugging_  him. 

Virgil was sobbing before he realized what was happening. He wanted to hug Patton back, but he was too overwhelmed, too surprised, too...too _everything_ , and he couldn’t. His breath was coming in great whooping gasps, and he was afraid he was hyperventilating, and he need the hug to go on forever and he needed it to _stop_. 

Thankfully, Patton seemed to understand; after a few more life-altering seconds, he drew away. But he did lean forward and place his trembling palms on Virgil’s neck, leaning forward and pressing his brow against Virgil’s. Virgil breathed out on a soft sob, and Patton mirrored it. 

“What’s...what’s happening?” Virgil whispered, when he could speak at all.   


“Patton is trying to show you that you’re wrong,” Logic said, and when Virgil glanced at him, the logical side had tears standing on his cheeks too. Virgil stared at him, stunned.   


Logic was crying. _Logic_. 

_Is this real?_

“It’s real, Virgil,” Roman said softly, and Virgil turned toward him, more amazed by the way his voice was also breaking than by the fact that Virgil had apparently spoken aloud without meaning to. And--and fuck, yeah, Prince’s eyes were welling with tears, too, his cheeks streaked with them.   


“What’s...I don’t...I don’t understand,” Virgil whispered. 

Roman rose to his feet, moving over to edge himself in next to Virgil and Patton and wrapping his strong arms around them both. Patton had all but landed on Virgil’s lap, when he’d launched himself at him, and he’d refused to move in the meantime; he was a warm solid weight atop Virgil’s thighs. On his other side, Logan slid in and rested his head on Virgil’s shoulder, clutching his arm. Virgil would normally feel trapped, surrounded by them on three sides like this, but right now, he felt...he felt...  


_\--safe warm secure protected_ _\--_

_(loved?)_

_.._.he felt...good. 

He sobbed softly, as Roman tightened his hold and Logan began stroking his hair. Patton leaned in again, wrapping Virgil in a hug, and this time, Virgil responded, wrapping his arms around Patton’s waist and-- _oh_ , God, no pillow could ever compare to the solid warmth and softness of him, and Virgil sobbed harder, hiding his face in Patton’s shoulder. Someone was whispering to him--nonsense words of kindness, of caring, of safety and family and _home_ , and Virgil absorbed them as he absorbed their touches, a desperately dry desert soaking in a sudden fall of rain. He could only pray, as they held him and soothed him, that this flood would not be a one-time event, because now that he’d felt this, he knew he could never go back to before. He’d die. He was sure of it. 

Somehow, though, something in him whispered it was okay--that this was a beginning, not an end. For the first time ever, he felt--and believed--that it things were really going to be okay. 

Wrapped in their arms, with tears still streaming down his face and sobs shaking his body, Virgil smiled.


	6. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil gets hugs. Lots of them.

  


They stayed that way for a good long while, the four of them, curled up somewhat awkwardly on the couch. Virgil would have stayed that way forever, in spite of the fact that his legs were starting to fall asleep under Patton’s weight and it really was getting a little too warm with the combination of their body heat and his hoodie. 

Fortunately for his circulation, Logan eventually drew away, and said, “Okay. That’s enough of this.” 

Virgil felt his heart sinking, especially as Roman also removed his arms and Patton climbed clumsily to his feet. Even though he had been getting physically uncomfortable, their touch had awakened something in him, some needy clawing thing, and it was nowhere _near_ satisfied yet. He had the worrying suspicion it never _would_  be, and then where would he be?

But Patton reached out and pulled him to his feet. “Virgil,” he said, and to Virgil’s amazement he sounded almost shy. “I would really like to give you a real hug now. May I?” 

“Y-yes,” Virgil uttered, startled--did Patton not think what he’d given him on the couch had been a proper--?  


Oh.

_Oh._  

Patton had stepped forward, the moment Virgil consented, and wrapped Virgil in his arms and _oh God_. The experience on the couch had been nice, yes, but there had been a few physically awkward things about it--the angle, the uncomfortably heavy weight of Patton on his lap, the awkwardness of trying to return the embrace while Patton had him half-pinned. 

But now they were standing up, facing one another, and Virgil finally understood just how pathetic a substitute his hug pillow had been. Because this--this was everything he’d never realized he was missing.  

When Patton pulled away, Virgil was reeling, still trying to process what had just happened, and already wanting to ask for another. But there was no need: Roman stepped in to take Patton’s place, a soft smile on his face, and a murmured, “My turn?” on his lips. 

And Virgil began to understand something, as Roman wrapped him in his second-ever real hug. Patton’s hugs were warm and sunny, all-encompassing, and full of emotion. Patton buried his face in Virgil’s shoulder and encouraged Virgil to do the same, rocking them a little while they hugged. It was warm, and caring, and supportive--the exact kind of hug you’d expect from a parent, Virgil realized. Unconditional and loving.    


Roman, on the other hand, hugged just the way a heroic knight should: strong and powerful and protective. Virgil felt _safe_ in Roman’s arms, and Roman used his few extra inches of height to his full advantage, gently cupping the back of Virgil’s head and guiding it to rest against his shoulder. He didn’t rock like Patton but he did sway ever so slightly, like standing in a breeze, and Virgil closed his eyes, listening to Roman’s heartbeat. 

Logan surprised him, though. He thought the logical side would despise hugs. But when Roman finally released him, after some indeterminate amount of time, Logan was there, and waiting, his arms open. And his hug was calm, pure comfort: a precise, measured embrace that made something in Virgil finally _relax,_ secure in the quiet knowledge that he was safe, cared for--even loved. 

He’d never known hugs could feel so _different_ \--that they were their own language, each communicating so much through touch alone. It was...intoxicating, and he knew he’d never get enough. His own return hugs were clumsy; he didn’t know where to put his arms, or where to rest his head, or how long to hold on. The language was still foreign to him.  But he wanted to learn; wanted to master all the subtle nuances, to become fluent in this tactile method of giving and receiving love. 

And he thought, maybe, the others might be willing to teach him. 

After several moments in Logan’s embrace, the logical side drew away, and took Virgil’s hands in his own, cradling them to his chest. Virgil swallowed, feeling the powerful beat of Logan’s heart under his fingers. 

“Virgil,” Logan said softly, his voice broken (but maybe that was okay? Virgil was beginning to think ‘broken’ didn’t mean ‘ruined,’ after all). “I am going to propose a course of action.”   


Virgil nodded slowly, feeling a tiny little niggle of worry--but it was faint, like the fading sound of thunder after the worst of the storm has passed. “Okay?” 

“As a result of your years of physical isolation, I believe you to be extremely touch starved,” Logan said. “Though we are not precisely human, we do need some physical contact to stay healthy. Now...I do believe we have already begun to counteract the negative effects of your touch starvation--we have been more physical with you since you told us your name--but you are nowhere near fully recovered.”   


Virgil swallowed. “So...what...what do I do?” he whispered. 

“What _we_  do is work together, to help you grow acclimated to frequent touch,” Logan said. Distantly, Virgil was aware of Roman and Patton moving around, gathering the tray from the coffee table and taking it back to the kitchen, but he couldn’t look away from Logan.  “I suggest we do so by engaging in frequent physical contact,” he continued, moving his hands so both of Virgil’s were tucked into one of his. He reached out with his free hand and laid his palm warmly against Virgil’s cheek. Virgil couldn’t resist leaning into the touch; Logan smiled.

“Ideally we’ll be doing so in the form of skin-to-skin contact, though you may find that too intense to do a lot of, at least at first. And...” he hesitated again, and Virgil realized Logan was nervous. _Logan_. 

Virgil’s heart began to pound again in anticipation. 

“I’m going to recommend you do not sleep alone for a little while,” Logan continued, speaking quickly, as if he thought Virgil would interrupt him or laugh. “I know how that sounds, but just--just hear me out. I believe the benefit of a full night of close contact will do you an enormous amount of good, and will expedite your recovery. I know it might seem a little...well, a little strange, but I really do think it would be the fastest way to counteract what is likely years of neglect. If. If you’re willing. If you want.” He had gone a little pink around the edges as he spoke, and now he was standing ramrod straight, meeting Virgil’s eyes with brave determination.

The rest of Virgil’s worries evaporated. His eyes stung, and was reminded, absurdly, of the Grinch in that old cartoon, whose heart grew to three times its normal size. His own felt like it was swelling to outpace that growth; he could not have loved Logan more in that moment if he’d tried. 

He realized Logan was waiting for an answer from him, so he swallowed again, and nodded hard. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah--yeah. Okay.”   


Logan looked surprised, then pleased, beaming a broad smile at Virgil, and Virgil realized he’d been wrong: he _could_  love him more. In fact, he was beginning to think his love for the others might not have an upper limit. It was both a terrifying and exhilarating thought. 

“Good,” Logan said, nodding and grinning. “Good! Excellent. That’s very sensible of you, Virgil. Self-care is very important, and this--I believe this will prove to be incredibly beneficial for you. Who would you like to stay with tonight?” 

“My bed is very large,” Roman said, moving up behind Logan and into Virgil’s line of sight again. “And perhaps spending time in my realm would be of benefit to you.”   


“My realm is grounded in reality,” Logan said, turning to Roman with a small frown. “I believe after the emotional events of the evening, a healthy dose of that might be better for him than fantasy.” 

“No...I really think mine would be better for tonight,” Roman countered with a frown of his own. “If he is having a hard time believing his value, a room where anything is possible--a room that enhances imagination--surely that would be better for him, don’t you agree?”   


“But his value is not based in fiction, it is based in _truth_.” Logan folded his arms over his chest and frowned at Roman, whose own frown was slowly deepening to a scowl. “He should stay with me. In my room.”  


They were...they were fighting. Over him. Over who...over who _got_  to stay with him, not who _had_  to. 

_Oh. Oh, wow._

“Kiddos,” Patton’s voice drew their attention, as he returned from the kitchen. “Maybe we should let him decide?” 

Roman and Logan both turned to look at Virgil, and Virgil felt his cheeks color under the weight of their hopeful stares. He--God, he loved them both, so much--how was he supposed to _choose...?_  “I...I don’t...I...” 

“Here’s a thought,” Patton murmured, jumping to his rescue. “What if we all stayed together? Out here?”   


Virgil slumped in relief, and nodded, hard. He didn’t--he didn’t want to be away from _any_  of them right now, and...and he definitely didn’t want to hurt any of them by _not_  choosing them, so-- “Yeah,” he said, smiling a little. “Yeah. That’d be...yeah.”

“A brilliant solution, indeed,” Logan admitted, giving Patton a fond smile; Patton winked back at him, then nodded at Roman.

“Roman, why don’t you create a bed out here for us? Plenty big, please. And lots of pillows.” 

Roman was happy to oblige, and before Virgil knew it, the coffee table and couch had been pulled aside, and Roman had conjured a huge mattress on the floor for them. It was piled high with pillows and blankets both, and even a few stuffed animals (Virgil even recognized Mrs Fluffybottom, the stuffed rabbit he and Roman had often fought over when they were younger). 

“I’m thinking boxers and t-shirts only, for pajamas,” Logan said, and when Virgil looked at him, he’d already snapped himself into the aforementioned sleepwear. “It will allow us some skin to skin contact, but hopefully not so much that you’re overwhelmed by it. And I’m going to suggest you take off the hoodie, if you can bear it.”   


Virgil hesitated. The hoodie had been his comfort blanket for so long that the thought of sleeping without it was literally terrifying, but... 

But did it have to be? The hoodie was comfort because it was a substitute for what he really wanted, and...and tonight that was being offered to him for real. Maybe...maybe he didn’t need it anymore?  

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay,” Patton spoke up quickly. “Of course, we only want you to be comfortable, and--”  


“I’ll take it off,” Virgil blurted, making the decision before he’d realized he was going to. But it felt...good. It felt _right_. He unzipped it quickly, then moved to shrug it from his shoulders.   


And hesitated. 

“Verge? You truly don’t have to,” Roman said softly, and when Virgil looked up at him his eyes were dark with concern and love. “It’s really okay, if you--”  


“No, I...I do. I want to. I just...” Virgil swallowed. “You know. I don’t...often. Is all.”   


“Here.” Roman moved up behind him, and laid his hands on Virgil’s shoulders. “Let me help you.”   


Virgil nodded, and Roman eased the hoodie it from his shoulders. He shivered immediately, and turned to see Roman folding the battered old thing as though it was made of the finest silks. He swallowed again, throat tightening, and he wondered if he was going to cry again. Somehow, it didn’t feel like the worst thing ever anymore. If he cried, they’d...they’d comfort him. And they’d love him still. 

It was a wonderful thought. 

They moved in around him, surrounding him with warmth, and guided him to the large bed. Virgil crawled into it, and the others followed. They ended up with Virgil on his side in the middle, curled into Roman’s chest, with Patton pressing in behind him and Logan spooned in behind Patton. He released a shuddering sigh, and a few tears did slip free, landing on the soft cotton of Roman’s t-shirt; in response, Roman pressed a kiss to Virgil’s head. 

“We’ve got you,” Patton whispered from behind, nuzzling in at the base of his neck. “We love you, Verge.”   


“So much,” Logan added, reaching across Patton to squeeze Virgil’s arm. 

“Always,” Roman concluded, kissing Virgil’s brow again and tangling their legs gently.   


And through his tears, Virgil smiled, and nodded. “Love you guys too,” he managed softly. 

They didn’t sleep right away. They stayed like that, curled into one another’s arms, talking softly and offering words of love and assurance, and promises for the future. Virgil let himself drift under their care, listening to their words, and absorbing their touches for hours. 

And when he did finally drift to sleep, he slept deeply, and his dreams were filled with hope. 

* 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Notes:** Guys you are all so amazing! Thank you so much for staying with me through this little story. I had so much fun writing this and so much fun hearing your responses to it. This is effectively the end of this story, but I think the universe I’ve gotten myself into here will make reappearances. So there will probably be Starved Inserts--just random future moments that take place in this universe when I feel like writing in it again. So this is the end for now. But not forever. <3 
> 
> Love you guys! Big, big hugs!! <3


	7. Epilogue

Thomas had been feeling unaccountably nervous all morning, so it was not particularly surprising when he heard the soft _whoosh_  that accompanied the appearance of a side. 

What _was_  surprising was when he turned from his place on the couch and saw not one or two, but _all_  of them, crowded into Virgil’s usual spot on the landing of his stairs. 

“Go on,” Patton was saying (he was pushed in against Virgil’s side, wedged between Virgil and the wall, but he was smiling, nudging Virgil forward. Roman, Thomas noted, was behind him, his hands on Virgil’s shoulders; Logan had sensibly moved up a bit on the stairs to give himself a little more room.) 

Virgil himself was hunched in, shoulders curved around himself, arms wrapped around his waist and hair falling over his eyes as he stared at his feet. He seemed rooted to the spot, in spite of Patton’s urges and Roman’s hands on his shoulders and Logan’s pointed gaze. 

“Uh--hey, guys,” Thomas said, bewildered. “What’s up?” 

Virgil mumbled something in an aside to Patton; Thomas caught the word “stupid” but couldn’t make out the rest.  

“It is _not_  stupid,” Patton said firmly. “And he will not mind at all!” 

“I won’t mind what?” Thomas was torn between amusement and worry. It was clear enough where each emotion was coming from. 

“Virgil has something he’d like to ask you,” Logan piped up from the stairs. 

“No, no, he doesn’t,” Virgil said, head snapping up and eyes wide and panicked as he glared at Logan. “He’s, uh--he just wanted to say hey. So...hey, Thomas. Okay, see ya.” 

He started to sink out, but the others cried out in protest and grabbed at him, hauling him back to the surface. 

Thomas, meanwhile, had climbed to his feet and moved forward to stand at the base of the stairs, looking up at his sides. “Seriously, Verge,” he said, trying to pitch his voice as calmly and gently as he could. Virgil had made a lot of progress lately, but he was still Anxiety, and Thomas knew he could sometimes require some extra coaxing to ask for what he wanted or needed. In this case, based on the reactions of the others, this was something Virgil _needed_. “What’s up?” 

Virgil glanced up at him, holding his gaze for a brief few seconds before looking down again, but in those seconds, Thomas saw enough pain and fear to make his heart squeeze in his chest. 

“Verge, c’mon,” he murmured. “What is it?” 

“Virgil wanted to know,” Patton prompted, when Virgil didn’t answer. “If you might be willing to give him something.” 

Thomas blinked. The sides could and did often want corporeal things, but they were also capable of making them on their own; apart from Patton sneaking Thomas’s leftovers from time to time, they rarely asked for anything from Thomas’s world. 

Still... “Well...of course, if it’s in my power to give it to you, I definitely will,” Thomas said, frowning slightly. “What is it?” 

Virgil was silent, shifting from foot to foot and twisting his fingers together. 

“Verge?” 

“Virgil,” Logan said softly, “Remember what we talked about? There’s no shame in wanting this.” 

“C’mon, buddy,” Roman murmured, squeezing Virgil’s shoulders. “I know you can do this. You got this.” 

Virgil closed his eyes, and Thomas felt his heart thumping in anticipation as Virgil drew a deep breath, then blurted: 

“I-was-wondering-if-I-could-have-a-hug.”

Thomas’s heart stuttered in his chest and he stared open-mouthed at the dark trait. For a moment he was too startled by the request to reply, and Virgil apparently took that as a no, because he slumped and shrugged. 

“Yeah, see, this was a stupid idea,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes closed and flushing red to the roots of his hair and the tips of his ears. “Never mind. Forget I asked. I’m gonna...” 

He started to sink out again, and Thomas finally snapped to attention, reaching out and grabbing him by the lapels of his hoodie. 

“Oh no you don’t,” he breathed, drawing him firmly back to the surface. 

Virgil allowed himself to be pulled up but wouldn’t open his eyes; instead, he stayed hunched over, bracing as if he expected a blow, and Thomas’s heart was breaking at the sight of him. 

“Virgil,” he breathed, eyes wide as he stared up at his anxious side. “My goodness--of _course._ Of course you can.”

Virgil hesitantly peeked out at him from under his bangs. The others had drawn away a little--as far as the cramped stairwell would allow--but Thomas hardly paid them any attention. Instead, he opened his arms, looking earnestly up at Anxiety. 

Virgil’s eyes flickered to Thomas’s chest and arms, then back up to his face, and there was soft hope mingling with disbelief writ across his features. “You...I mean I...really?” he squeaked.  

“Of course!” Thomas said, heart clenching again as he realized _this_ was why he’d felt so nervous all morning. How long had Virgil been trying to work himself up to asking? And why on earth had he thought Thomas would be unwilling to give him something so simple? “My gosh, of course! I love you, Verge.” 

He didn’t think he’d needed to say it, but when Virgil’s eyes widened and grew shiny with tears, Thomas realized he’d made a  mistake assuming that. He swallowed against the lump forming in his own throat and blinked to clear his vision. “I love you,” he said again, firm but gentle. “Virgil. I do. C’mere?” 

Virgil took a breath and a shaking step forward, then another, descending the last few steps from the landing. He was still one step above Thomas when his face crumpled a little, and he curled forward, folding himself into Thomas’s arms and hiding his face in Thomas’s shoulder. 

Thomas caught him immediately and drew him in close, a near-painful spasm of love spiking through his chest as he felt Virgil’s body trembling against his. He glanced over Virgil’s shoulders at the others and raised a questioning eyebrow, but Logan shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. _Later_ , he mouthed, and Thomas nodded. 

He returned his attention to Virgil, who was still huddled against him. He lifted his hand and cupped the back of Virgil’s neck, and Virgil shivered and whimpered softly in response. 

Thomas swallowed again as another powerful wave of protective love swept through him. When he glanced again at the others, he didn’t have to wonder where it had come from: he knew all of them were feeling it, too. 

“Verge?” Thomas murmured, moving his hand from Virgil’s neck to stroke the short hairs at the nape. “I was just about to put on a movie or something--” 

Virgil misunderstood him. “Oh--s-sorry, I’m sorry,” he said as he drew away quickly, scrubbing at his face. Thomas was surprised when he felt the loss of Virgil in his arms like a physical ache. “I won’t take up any more of your--”

“No, no!” Thomas said quickly. “That’s not what I--what I meant was, I was going to see if--maybe you’d like to join me?” 

Virgil looked up in surprise. “I--you...really?” He glanced at the others, then back at Thomas. “You mean...you mean all of us...?” 

“Actually, it’d be sort of nice to hang out with just you for awhile,” Thomas said gently, glancing up at the others. “You understand, right guys?” 

“Of course!” they chorused in unison. Roman reached out and squeezed Virgil’s shoulder again (and really, Thomas was going to have to talk with him later--Prince had been making so much progress with the anxious side, and Thomas was so proud of how protective he’d gotten. He’d have to make sure to let Roman know--but not right now. Right now, Virgil needed him.)

“There, see?” he murmured--and yeah, okay, he was definitely going to have to have someone explain this to him later because Patton looked like he was about to cry tears of joy, Roman had his hands pressed together in front of his mouth and was bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, and even Logan was failing to suppress a proud, beaming smile. 

But for now, though, the particulars didn’t matter. For now, Virgil obviously needed this, and that was more important than understanding _why_. 

Thomas stepped back and held out his hand, and Virgil stared at it for a second before slipping his own into it shyly and letting Thomas guide him down from the last step and lead over to the couch. There, Thomas settled into his favorite spot and opened his arms, and after another moment’s hesitation, Virgil crawled into them, curling against Thomas and resting his head against Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas wrapped his arms around the anxious side and pulled him close, glancing at the others back on the stairwell and giving them a reassuring nod:  _I’ve got him._  

Patton gave him a beaming smile; Roman gave him a thumbs up, and Logan nodded in approval. Then they sank out quietly, leaving Virgil and Thomas alone. Virgil was still shaking slightly, but he was also beginning to relax, bit by bit. Thomas swallowed against the lump in his throat and trailed his hand up and down Virgil’s back, from the small of his spine to the nape of his neck. Virgil shivered and pressed closer, and Thomas closed his eyes, turning his head to kiss Virgil’s temple. 

“So,” he murmured, after several long, quiet moments. “What do you want to watch?” 

Virgil shrugged. “What..whatever you want,” he said softly, voice high with wonder as Thomas began to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck. 

“Hm.” Thomas tried to recall the titles of Virgil’s favorites. “How about Nightmare Before Christmas?” he suggested.  

Virgil shrugged and nodded. “Sure, whatever.” 

Thomas nodded and grabbed the remote, selecting the movie, then queued up a few others after that he knew Virgil would also enjoy. Virgil noticed, and Thomas felt the tiny puff of air across his collar bone as Virgil issued a half-laugh. 

“How...how long are you planning to sit here like this?” he asked, but under the half-teasing tone, Thomas could hear the unmistakable note of hope. 

Thomas smiled, and leaned down to kiss the top of Virgil’s head. “As long as I like,” he said. “As long as _we_  like.” 

Virgil shivered and drew away far enough to look up at him, biting his lip. Then he smiled, and Thomas’s breath caught in his throat a little. He and Virgil might share a face, but he was quite certain he had never himself had such a sweet, soft, heartbreakingly shy smile on his own. “Thank you, Thomas,” Virgil whispered.

Thomas slipped his hands into Virgil’s hair, cradling his head, and dotted several tiny, chaste kisses along his brow, his temple, and his cheek, before drawing away again. Virgil’s eyes were shining again, and Thomas had to blink back a few tears of his own as he stroked Virgil’s bangs from his brow then guided him back to lean into his chest. 

“Anytime, Verge,” he whispered, and Virgil sighed against him, arms tightening around Thomas’s waist. “ _Anytime_.”  

* 


End file.
